


An Artist's Declaration

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Nervous Sherlock, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, first wedding anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:26:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to show John just how much he loves him by doing something very special for their first wedding anniversary. But will he get it right, or will John see but not observe?</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Artist's Declaration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/gifts).



> This idea just wouldn't let me go and I tried not to write it but superblue is a terrible influence and insisted I inflict this disgustingly sickly sweet fluffly fluff on you all. Apologies to dentists the world over. 
> 
> Blue, this one's all yours. <3
> 
> PS. fair warning, not beta'd, written in about an hour. So, yeah.

It has rarely happened in the last few years but when it does, he has virtually no control over it. The urge starts in his fingers, the itching feeling under the skin and nails, and as it spreads to his hands, Sherlock knows he needs to indulge. Just a little, to get the feeling back under control again. 

John has no idea, as ever he sees but does not observe. Sherlock is careful to hide the materials; his pencils and paper neatly tucked away in a box with a false bottom at the back of the wardrobe. If John did go looking, perhaps suspecting a relapse of a more sinister kind, all he would find would be some newspaper clippings of their old cases. Sentiment.

It’s all sentiment, in the end, and it’s why Sherlock is starting to worry a little as it’s their first wedding anniversary today. John will be expecting something tonight, a thoughtful gift, surely? That’s what people do when they celebrate their first year of marriage, isn’t it? 

Sherlock wants to get John a truly meaningful gift, something that shows him how important John is, how deeply Sherlock loves him. Sherlock’s not one for grand emotional gestures, or stirring, moving speeches (with the exception of one particular, ill-conceived instance in the not-yet-distant-enough past). So he worries, he worries that he doesn’t tell John frequently enough. John is much freer with expressing sentiment, finds it much easier just to drop a kiss into Sherlock’s hair and mumble into his curls in passing. Sherlock treasures those moments and longs to reciprocate but, even after almost a year of marriage, he’s unsure of the rules around timing, how to approach it, exactly what he should say. It’s frustrating to say the least, this stupidly inexplicable reticence, but John just smiles warmly and says he knows. Even when Sherlock struggles to find the right words, John knows. 

That’s why on this, their very first anniversary, Sherlock is going to find a suitable way to make sure John knows. And it starts with the box with the false bottom in the back of the wardrobe. 

Sherlock pulls out the box while John is out getting wine to go with the dinner he has planned. He’s gone to the wine merchants about twenty minutes away, but the owner loves the sound of his own voice so will keep John occupied with inane chatter for at least ten minutes. John will be away for about an hour. Wonderful, that should be just enough time. 

He flicks through the sheaf of paper, looking for just the right sheet for what he has in mind. Some of his earlier drawings fall out and scatter across the bedroom floor. Sherlock picks them up, examining them closely. 

They are all anatomical drawings, done over many years, and as Sherlock flicks back through the completed ones his mind conjures up the circumstances for each. 

Lungs – a drowning case nine years ago, the inspiration.

A thumb – the embezzling pilot case (the whisky he’d recovered went to John as a birthday present). 

Joints, muscles, ligaments, bones, organs – they’re all here, except one. The one he could never bring himself to draw. 

The universally recognised shape is, of course, wholly inaccurate. Dull. No, John will have a detailed, anatomically correct representation. After all, he has been in possession of Sherlock’s since that first night, so any years ago now. It seems only right that, on their first wedding anniversary, John should receive a paper version too. 

Sherlock brings his supplies to the desk in the sitting room – paper, pencils, copy of Gray’s Anatomy. He can visualise the exact shape, size and texture he wants to create on the page but it never hurts to have a reference nearby. He settles down and begins to bring the image in his mind to life on the paper. 

He’s so completely absorbed in finishing the piece that he almost doesn’t hear the sound of John’s voice, talking to Mrs Hudson downstairs. Quickly reviewing his work and nodding sharply in satisfaction, he disposes of the evidence, hiding the pencils and spare paper in the hollowed out copy of an old chemistry textbook. Sherlock then stuffs it back into the bookcase, confident that John will never suspect. The drawing he tucks neatly into the handmade envelope, leftover from their wedding invitations. He writes “John” across the front, seals the envelope and places it carefully next to John’s chair. Diving for the sofa, Sherlock’s just wriggling into a comfy position when John comes in.

“Hi, love,” John murmurs, the carrier bag in his hand rustling as he walks over to bestow Sherlock with a soft kiss. Sherlock hums in response, bursting with the desire to give John his gift and furiously fighting ridiculous nerves over its reception. 

John is talking to him now from the kitchen, something about glasses for the wine, and setting the table for dinner? Sherlock heaves himself off the couch with exaggerated effort, and plonks himself down at the kitchen table. John rolls his eyes and works around his “lazy-arse husband”. 

Dinner is pleasant, the wine warms Sherlock’s insides, makes his limbs feel a little heavier and his head go just the right side of woozy. John is chuckling, watching him smile into his wine glass. Sherlock gives him what is intended as a haughty glare, but is spoiled by the amused smile playing about his lips. 

John clears his throat, and raises his glass. 

“To us, idiots who finally got something right,” he says, and there’s such tenderness in his eyes it makes the wooziness in Sherlock’s head spread throughout his body. He swallows past the stupid lump that has appeared in his throat, and clinks his glass to John’s. 

“I got you something,” John is saying. “It’s not much, but I hope you like it.” He hands Sherlock a plain, brown envelope, and looks away as Sherlock opens it. He pulls out the thin sheet of paper inside. 

It’s a copy of their marriage certificate, only written entirely by hand and in Latin. The calligraphy is exquisite, looping, swirling across the page, with their names delicately placed in the centre and an embossed seal in the bottom right corner. The translation is perfect as far as Sherlock can tell, and he loves the gift instantly.  
John is smiling again, gauging his reaction. 

“It’s lovely, John,” Sherlock says, turning the certificate over gently in his hands. “Thank you.”

John is grinning widely now, pleased, but his smile falters and he reaches for Sherlock’s hand when he sees apprehension flash briefly in Sherlock’s eyes. 

“What is it, love?” John asks, setting down his wine glass and taking Sherlock’s hand in both of his. Sherlock frowns, glancing over to John’s chair behind him. He stands up, walks over and picks up the envelope he had so carefully set there. 

He’s fiddling with the edges of the envelope, and comes to stand beside John still sitting at the kitchen table. His eyes wander over the debris of their meal, half-empty wine glasses (and bottle), the broccoli Sherlock refuses to eat because he hates the texture pushed to one side of his plate, John’s cutlery perched on the side of his plate.

John cooked for them, bought wine for them, and has now given Sherlock a wonderful gift. In return, Sherlock has created a black and white pencil drawing of a major human organ, which he’s wrapped in a second-hand envelope and scrawled John’s name on? This is a disaster. John is kind, caring and thoughtful, and Sherlock just reduces things to their constituent parts, plucking out the small details and dismissing them as if they were so much pocket lint. He doesn’t deserve this man, he knows it. It’s a thought that comes to him often, worries and chews at him in the small hours as he lies listening to John’s steady breathing in the dark next to him. How can he give John his gift now?

“… that’s still a bit scary, you know.” John’s voice cuts through his rushing thoughts, his amused tone tinged with concern. 

“There you are, you always come back to me, although God knows where you wander off to in that head of yours sometimes,” John says fondly. He’s holding Sherlock’s hand again, and he’s standing close to him now. Sherlock takes a deep breath, holding the scent of John in his nose and lungs as long as he can before releasing the air once more. 

“I.. I got you a gift as well,” he starts quietly, “Well, I made you… well not so much made, as created… well, here.” Sherlock thrusts the envelope into John’s chest and turns away. He doesn’t want to see the anticipation in John’s eyes, knowing he’ll be at best, disappointed, at worst, vaguely disgusted at Sherlock’s attempt at a personal, thoughtful gift.

He hears John open the envelope carefully and withdraw the single sheet of thick, creamy paper inside. John inhales sharply, and Sherlock mentally prepares himself for a lecture on appropriate gift giving. 

“Sherlock, did you draw this?” John asks softly. His hand is on Sherlock’s shoulder, turning him back to face his husband. 

Sherlock nods, still frowning. John is looking down at the picture in his hand and Sherlock can’t see his face. He rushes to explain. 

“Yes, I did. I do that sometimes, it helps me to think. Like my violin. I draw from the descriptions in Gray’s, it’s the only organ I hadn’t done, if I’m honest. I wanted to draw it for you, and some dullard at NSY mentioned last week that paper is a traditional gift on a first wedding anniversary, and…” he stops as John looks up at him. 

John’s eyes are wet, and he’s smiling again. That must be a good sign, mustn’t it?

“Bit not good?” Sherlock mumbles, unsure if he actually wants to know that answer. 

John laughs and shakes his head. 

“It’s beautiful, love. Thank you.” He gazes at the picture again for a moment then raises his eyes to Sherlock’s once more. 

“I love you, you daft bastard.”

Sherlock beams, wraps his arms around John and pulls him in close. John tries to hide his sniffles, but Sherlock doesn’t mind the dampness on his shirt. 

“It’s yours, John. It belongs to you and it always will,” he says softly. 

They stand in the kitchen for a long time, simply enjoying one another’s embrace. 

The following week John gets the drawing framed, proud of and honoured by what Sherlock has given him so freely and so completely. It sits on the mantelpiece between Billy the skull and the Latin marriage certificate, a black and white pencil work of a perfectly anatomically correct heart.


End file.
